


A Pocket Full Of Posies

by stop_the_fading



Series: The Hooch Engine Trilogy [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: And By Somewhat I Mean Almost Entirely, Angels are Dicks, Background Deviates From Canon Somewhat, DIY!Dean, Dean Is A Sad Cupcake In Every Universe, Floriography, Friends to Lovers, Hunter!Trans, Illegal Use Of A Pie As A Weapon Of God, Liberal Interpretation Of Revelations, Moms Are Fucking Badass, Multi, Navigating Disabilities In A Post Apocalyptic World, NonBinary!Angels, Not Endverse, Paraplegic!Sam, Post-Apocalypse, Sam And Dean Don't Have A Destiny, Saving The World One Tree At A Time, Scholar!Sam, Slow Burn, The Winchesters Were Never Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-02 09:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6561634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stop_the_fading/pseuds/stop_the_fading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or</p><p>The One Where Mary Is Alive, All Of Sam's Friends Are Books, Jo's Soulmate Is Probably A Tree, Castiel Is Pretty Sure Curiosity Is A Terminal Illness, Dean Might Have Accidentally Adopted Linda Tran, And The End Was Nigh About Twelve Years Ago</p><p>:::</p><p>	It's the summer of 12. Not '12, like 2012 AD. Just 12. More specifically, the year 12 PA (Post Apocalypse, guys, keep up). And man, Lawrence, Kansas ain't the bustling metropolis it used to be.</p><p>	Somewhere in the wreckage, Mary, Dean, and Sam Winchester are trying to pick up the pieces of their lives. And yeah, maybe their home is kind of a mix between a drafty cave and a blackened crater, but it's their crater-cave, and that's what counts.</p><p>	Unfortunately, in spite of being a nice, normal, somewhat shell-shocked family in this universe, they wouldn't really be the Winchesters if they didn't end up smack in the middle of everything. They're not sure what they did to garner the attention of the Heavenly Host and the Hoards of Hell, but suddenly they've gone from being insignificant blips on the radar to the biggest players in the game.</p><p>	Still, the world's already ending - how much worse could it get?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Almond

**Author's Note:**

> As with all my works, idek how often this'll be updated. There is actually a plot here besides Dean infecting Cas with Free Will. I promise.
> 
> But it's mostly about Dean infecting Cas with Free Will.
> 
> Aaanyway. Pairings are flexible, tags to be added as they crop up, and if you leave me a really nice review I'll give you a cameo as either an angel, a demon, or a human.
> 
> You will probably die. Depends on the review.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean Saves An Innocent Life From A Smitey Death, Castiel Doesn't Have Time For This Nonsense, And Home Depot Is A Life-Saver

    It started with an almond tree.  
  
    To be fair to himself, Dean was a little bit drunk at the time.

* * *

  
  
    The Apocalypse was, so far, Dean's least favorite summer vacation destination, and he was including the summer when his dad had taken them all to spend a month with his marine buddy and his mom had spent the entire time in a foul mood over an argument about teaching six-year-old Dean to use a knife. At least then he'd gotten to spend the night in actual beds and had gotten to eat food that wasn't canned or dried or a Hostess snack cake (believe it or not, one can get sick of Hostess snack cakes), and Sammy had only been about two then, and thus far less of a know-it-all.  
  
    Also, there had been a distinct lack of earthquakes, floods, and the ever-present shriek of the hoardes of Hell battling the armies of Heaven for eternal dominion over the Earth.  
  
    What was left of it, anyway.  
  
    Hunkered down in the charred remains of a Home Depot, barricaded behind a wall of potting soil bags that had, miraculously (no, no more miracles, Sammy's voice hissed bitterly) survived the devastation, Dean did his best to ignore Demons Versus Angels Episode One Squillion and looked between his flask and the second Hostess Snoball idly. It might not've seemed like an all-important decision, whiskey or snack cake, but when you were seconds from death it was important to consider what you wanted your untimely end to taste like.  
  
    There was another clash of blade on blade, and a few more cement tree planters shattered. Shrugging, Dean shoved the Snoball into his mouth and tipped a healthy dose of whiskey in after it. He felt it was an appropriate symbol of his continued refusal to pick sides in this biblical pissing contest.  
  
    Something that sounded an awful lot like a body (and Dean knew all the kinds of sounds bodies made now) hit the stack of potting soil bags, sending half the makeshift wall tumbling around Dean, forcing him to roll out of the way as he struggled to swallow and swear simultaneously, and that was when he saw it.  
  
    Still alive, his mind supplied as he peered at the tiny sapling. It was no more than two feet tall, its leaves a bit tattered and a few burnt and crumbling, but it stubbornly clung to life as it forced its way up through a crack in the floor of the Home Depot garden center. A splash of green in a sea of blackened stone and flame.  
  
    There was movement close by, the hiss and snarl of a demon and a sort of inaudible humming feeling Dean would have once identified as electricity, except he associated it with angels these days. He didn't bother to look - he'd seen this battle played out thousands of times in the last decade or so - but he could feel them coming closer. In seconds, they'd be right on top of him, and he instantly, instinctively, and possibly a bit drunkenly curled his body around the little plant.  
  
    "Watch it, douchebags, we're tryin' to live over here!"  


* * *

  
  
    At first, Castiel didn't notice it. Didn't hear the small, weak voice, didn't see the figure hunched over in his path. He'd stopped noticing such insignificant things long ago. It was probable that he wouldn't have stopped in his attack had not the demon he'd been fighting begun to laugh.  
  
    He really disliked demons.  
  
    It took him a long moment to realize what had caught its attention, briefly taking advantage of the distraction to smite it thoroughly, and as its vile voice faded on the wind, he turned towards the human.  
  
    Humans, he thought tiredly, but without malice. Forever getting underfoot. In twelve short years they'd managed to do little more than scatter and scream, and yet they persisted in doing so directly in the line of fire. It was no wonder, he decided, that so many were to foretold to die. They had very little skill for getting out of the way.  
  
    He made to leave, already in the process of forgetting the entire incident.  
  
    "Y'okay there, buddy?"  
  
    Frowning, Castiel peered back at the human again, bewildered for a moment as he believed it had been talking to him.  
  
    But no. He saw it was still crouched over, fingers poking at something gently, and it was to that something that he spoke.  
  
    "You'd think these all-powerful dicks would be better at watching where they're stomping, right?"  
  
    It was a plant. An almond sapling, his memory supplied as he watched the human draw out a knife and dig into the crack from which it grew. The human had placed himself in the middle of a battle between an angel and a demon for the sake of a plant.  
  
    "Let's get you somewhere a little safer, huh?"  
  
    In the short time since the End of Days had begun, Castiel had seen humans put themselves in the line of fire for many reasons. Reasons he had, in a small, curious part of his mind, found admirable, if not especially wise. Sentimental belongings, homes, their families and friends. He had even borne witness early on to a woman's prayers for her grandmother's garden to be spared.  
  
    He did not know if this fell under that category or not. He couldn't even be certain why it had so captured his attention. Perhaps, he pondered as his memory drew up the human's first exclamation, it was simply the incongruity of it all. This battered and defiant human crouched in the ruined shell of what had once been an unremarkable marker of human civilization, rough hands that seemed at home with a knife tenderly saving a life most would find expendable.  
  
    'The trees will grow back,' Uriel had said in the beginning, back before Castiel had truly understood the Will of God, before his resolve had strengthened. He had been weak then, mourning His Father's Creation, torn asunder by the hands of not only demons, but by His angels, His most faithful children as well.  
  
    He had been confused, complicating that which was truly simple in the end. The trees would grow back. The righteous would be given Paradise. As it was written, so shall it be.  
  
    This human, he reasoned, was probably likewise confused, and without the brothers and sisters that Castiel had to show him the true path. Confused creatures clung to the unlikeliest of things.  
  
    It was as he thought this, prepared at last to dismiss the encounter and take his leave, that the human looked up into Castiel's eyes.  
  
    At first all Castiel saw was green, the very shade of the new leaves of the sapling. Then he saw anger.  
  
    No. He saw fury. A purer fury than he'd ever seen before, even in the eyes of his strongest and most admirable brother, Michael. The sort of fury that could only be felt on behalf of another being.  
  
    Over a tree.  
  
    "What did this little guy ever do to you, dick?"  
  
    Castiel paused. "Plants..." He frowned. 'Plants are incapable of malice and therefore unable to sin - I have no quarrel with the tree,' he wanted to say, but then, why should he feel obligated to give this human an explanation? He owed the man nothing.  
  
    "What, you don't like plants or something?" Cradling the sapling in one arm like a newborn, the human cupped its roots, glancing around before pinning Castiel with another glare. "I thought this was all God's Creation. Aren't you supposed to be protecting it or whatever?"  
  
    'The trees will grow back,' he wanted to say, though he didn't know why. This human was unlikely to understand, anyway.  
  
    "I mean, I get humans, we can be pretty fucked up. Not that I'm okay with this shit," the human amended, eyes narrowing as his jaw clenched, "but I get how high-and-mighty assholes like you might think we're worth wiping out. But come on, dude. It's a fucking tree. It never did anything wrong - you can't just let it live in peace?"  
  
    Again, the mouth of Castiel's vessel opened of its own volition. He forced it closed, his own face twisting in frustration. He owed this man nothing, he told himself again.  
  
    "So, what, all that shit about God being able to feel the death of one sparrow or what-the-fuck-ever, that's all bullshit? One puny oak doesn't count for anything?"  
  
    "Almond," Castiel snapped before he could catch himself. "That is an almond tree..."  
  
    The human blinked, apparently caught off guard, and Castiel would have been grateful for the reprieve from those angry eyes had he not come to a realization.  
  
    An almond tree.  
  
    Tilting his head, he moved closer to the human, slowing only slightly when the man didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he looked angrier, one hand dropping from the plant in his arms to drift closer to his knife. Castiel did not stop his advance; even if he could get the blade in hand, even if he could strike fast enough to stab the angel, it would do nothing, and they both knew it.  
  
    Somehow, Castiel imagined this human might just stab him anyway. Humans were irrational in that way.  
  
    Reaching out, Castiel cupped his hands around the roots of the sapling and allowed his Grace to trickle into it slowly, carefully. He felt every fiber of the tree, inched through every vein, unfurled into each leaf with a care he'd not used in many a century. He could feel the urge in it to put forth fruit and flower, and he could not stop himself from smiling.  
  
    Drawing his hands away, he inspected the root ball he'd created. As an afterthought, he willed into being a pot for it as well, and the human's arms tensed further to take the extra weight of it.  
  
    "Plant it deep," he instructed, eyes finding the human's. There was no more anger - only a grave sort of consideration. "It will root strongly and produce well."  
  
    The human's jaw clenched again, a bit of the anger flaring as though Castiel's words had been a spark falling into dry tinder. "Until one of you bastards razes it to the ground, you mean."  
  
    Castiel stepped back. He pondered his words carefully, because he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to speak them aloud. He wasn't certain he even dared to think them. And he really owed this human nothing.  
  
    Of all things, though. An almond tree.  
  
    "I sincerely hope not," he admitted. Drawing his blade once more, he couldn't stop himself feeling bemused when the human actually pulled out his own knife. "Goodbye," he added absently, mind already turning towards a nearby demon whose presence was crackling bitter against his Grace.  
  
    Without another glance at the human, he turned and flew into battle once more.  


* * *

  
  
    Dean looked down at the tree as the angel vanished, leaving behind only the sound of fluttering wings. The almond tree, he noted, equal parts irritated, bewildered, and amused. Okay, then.  
  
    "Mom's gonna like you," he told it, his thoughts still half wrapped up in the weird angel and its weird actions and weirder words.  
  
    It took him a while to find a wheelbarrow that was in good enough shape for the two-mile trek across the wreckage of Lawrence, Kansas. Loading the sapling into it, he rummaged until he unearthed the pruning shears he'd come in for in the first place and tossed them into the wheelbarrow, as well. Bags of jerky from the checkout followed, copper wire, a few other odds and ends. He wasn't sure when he'd be able to come back, or if the crumbling remains of the Home Depot would even still be there when he did.  
  
    He wasn't sure of much anymore.  
  
    Sighing, he took up the handles of the wheelbarrow and started the slow, tedious, and occasionally life-threatening journey home.  
  
    Sammy was gonna love this.


	2. Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sam Is Having A Bad Day, Dean Doesn't Make A Dick Joke, And Mary Serves Us Boring Exposition.

* * *

   
    "You know, Dean," Sam said in that tone that either meant he'd just found out something vaguely interesting but ultimately useless and was about to share it, or he'd found out something vaguely interesting and ultimately useful and was about to make Dean work for it, "almond trees have significance in Christian symbolism."  
  
    Dean wasn't sure which it was yet. Sammy had a way with theology, and sometimes it ended up being life-saving, but most of the time it tended more towards I-can't-believe-people-thought-that-was-a-thing. He couldn't begrudge the guy the pleasure of his research or the triumph of sharing its results, though. For all his faults, Sammy was his little brother, and that made him Dean's responsibility - his health and happiness were at least partly on Dean, and he'd done enough since the start of this little slice of Armageddon to jeopardize that. If filling Dean's head with pointless facts about rocks and ancient tattooing practices and goddamn bees made up for even a fraction of Dean's infractions, he'd take it.  
  
    So instead of rolling his eyes or snapping at the guy, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, nodded, and half-asked, "okay...?"  
  
    "Yeah, the staff that represented Aaron and the house of Levi," Sam continued, brushing his mane of hair from keen eyes. Half his attention was on the singed and tattered anthropology textbook Dean had scrounged for him at the crater that had used to be the community college, but he looked up from it long enough to favor Dean with a bemused grin. "Numbers, 17:1-8. I think God was annoyed about people having bitch fits about Moses because he was a Levite, and He decided to settle things by showing He liked the Levites best and that Aaron was His specially chosen or something by having each of the sons of the tribal leaders write their names on staffs and making the staff of His chosen one sprout."  
  
    Dean didn't grin and make a dirty joke there, but it was a damned near thing.  
  
    "'And it came to pass, that on the morrow Moses went into the tabernacle of witness; and, behold, the rod of Aaron for the house of Levi was budded, and brought forth buds, and bloomed blossoms, and yielded almonds.'" Sam looked back down at the textbook. "It's supposed to be a symbol of divine approval. Like God's saying, 'yep, this one - I like this one'. Sometimes it's used to symbolize the Virgin Mary, but honestly, a lot of flowers and things symbolize Mary; cyclamen, brambles, jasmine, iris, lilies."  
  
    "Huh." Dean looked down at the little sapling, still sitting patiently in the wheelbarrow. He knew it wasn't looking back at him, really, but Sam's words gave him a new wariness of it. "Divine approval, huh? Think that angel asshat thought it was some kinda sign?"  
  
    "Maybe." Shrugging, Sam picked up his reed pen and dipped it into the little pot of ink Dean had cobbled together, pausing before circling something in his textbook and jotting a quick note. "Maybe he just likes trees, too."  
  
    Dean considered this, watching Sam poring over the book for a long moment, curled over the wooden tilt-top overbed table Dean had attached to the bedframe for him. It wasn't often Sam used it - staying bedridden made him feel useless, he said time and again, preferring to scoot himself over to the little study area Dean and Mary had set up for him. His chair sat next to the bed in its track today, though, and Dean knew it was one of his bad days without having to ask. One of the days that every movement ached and his head pounded too much and he just felt too tired to even throw back the covers.  
  
    Dean had plenty of days like that, honestly, but every time he thought that, he'd hear Sam's morning ritual of sitting up, maneuvering around, levering himself into his chair and pulling himself along the wall they shared to his desk, and Dean was reminded of why he didn't have the right to just roll over and sleep through the End of Days. The fact that just the act of getting out of bed was a million times more complicated for Sam than it was for him was a big part of it, but...  
  
    (the earth was cracking, deep wounds splitting the skin of the world, and Dean was running, Sam at his heels, that's why Sam caught it instead of Dean, why he was the one who crumpled to the ground while Dean screamed, caught him up in his arms, fell with him as blood soaked them both, his baby brother heaving and bleeding and dying...)  
  
    The thought that God, of all people, might be saying 'I like the look of this sunovabitch, lemme make his rod sprout', that Dean might've been chosen for some kind of destiny, was almost enough to make him laugh.  
  
    He watched Sam shift uncomfortably, one hand reaching back to press against his spine.  
  
    Almost.

* * *

  
  
    "Brought ya something, Mom."  
  
    Mary looked up as her oldest boy wheeled a tree into her little garden, a lopsided, not entirely real grin pasted on his face. Sitting back on her heels, she swiped at her forehead and squashed the urge to crack her back - the look on Dean's face the first time he'd heard her do that after what happened to Sam was enough to put her off ever cracking her back again.  
  
    Instead, she sank her spade into the soft soil and clambered to her feet. "A tree, huh?"  
  
    "Yup. Almond, apparently," he added, face twitching into an indefinable expression for a moment before he grinned again, more honest this time. "Be good for us, right? More nuts and shit."  
  
    "Watch your fucking language," she admonished good-naturedly, grinning back. "Okay, lets put it over in the corner for now."  
  
    She watched as Dean positioned it, catching what little sunlight he could on its little leaves, fingers turning the pot this way and that contemplatively, and she wondered what had happened to get him in this bewildered mood.  
  
    "Sam still in bed?" she guessed when he stood, brushing his hands off. When he nodded, cringing, Mary sighed. "We still have some willow bark left if he won't take the aspirin."  
  
    "He never takes the aspirin," Dean remarked with a scowl.  
  
    Mary had nothing to say to that. Nothing new, anyway - they'd all argued about it at one time or another, and frankly, she was getting too old to match her kids in pigheadedness. Nowadays she had a policy of sitting back and letting Dean scold Sam, because it made him feel less guilty, and letting Sam stand his ground stubbornly, because it made him feel less weak.  
  
    Sometimes, she thought as Dean positioned the wheelbarrow under their water spout, she thought that maybe Dean started arguments with Sam on purpose, just to let him win, to give him that feeling. Her oldest was that kind of man.  
  
    As he took his leave with a little wave, Mary sank back to her knees and went back to turning over the soil, lost in thought.  
  
    Dean had been fourteen when everything had gone down - John, the Apocalypse, their home being wiped off the face of the Earth as though it had never been - and Sammy ten, and from the time they'd been small she'd thought a bit about what sort of men they'd probably grow to be.  
  
    Dean, good-natured and kind, sharp as a goddamn tack but always covering it in witty puns and clownish antics. He'd already been talking about following John into the car repair business, but that was to be expected from a boy who never quite stopped believing his father was a superhero. Cars had been all Dean could talk about in the months leading up to everything falling apart.  
  
    By contrast, Sam had been a serious-minded kid, compassionate, and with a dry sense of humor. It had become obvious early on that Sam was something of a prodigy. At eight years old, he'd stood in the kitchen, watching Dean fix the electric mixer with a little frown, and declared to his family that he was going to become a lawyer. They'd believed him.  
  
    Things had definitely changed, Mary thought wryly, sinking her fingers into the cool earth, searching for any stray stones. The understatement drew a hollow chuckle from her.  
      
    She drew herself sharply out of her memories (the sun going out, the shuddering of the Earth, John reaching for her as his eyes went dark) and sat back again, gazing around her garden, breathing the damp, earthy air slowly.  
  
    She'd been so angry in those early days. So determined to have revenge, as though she'd been trying to cleanse the Earth in the blood of angel and demon alike. Dragging her shell-shocked, mourning children from coast to coast, looking for someone, anyone, to blame. Looking for some kind of remuneration, explanation, anything. Only it hadn't just been her on the road.  
  
    It had been that moment, rounding the corner to see Dean holding Sam up, hands holding his wounds closed, blood dripping through his fingers as he screamed and screamed and the ground split and shattered around them, that Mary had woken up from a five-year sleepwalk. Woken up to find that John was gone and her sons were there and she would be goddamned if she was going to let them go to follow John. The shame had been bitter and sharp, but in that second, she'd turned her back on John's ghost and gone to her children. Too little, she'd thought, too late.  
  
    It had been Mary who'd found the doctor - the same doctor who'd delivered Sam, and there she'd been to deliver him again - and she'd done what he could to save Sam, and in the process she'd saved a little bit of Dean, too, but it had been too late to save Mary.  
  
    She could hear them now, arguing over painkillers, and with a wry smile, she wiped her palms against her jeans and looked over at the tree in its little halo of wan sunlight.  
  
    Their little safe haven had been a temporary fix at first. It was a small church, ironically enough, mostly buried in the earth so that only what was left of the roof, with its shattered spire, remained in view. Little besides the nave and chancel had survived, the bones and crumbling stone walls of the rest giving way to a few natural tunnels. The lancet windows had long since fallen away, leaving only the top foot or so open to the sky. It had been somewhere quiet, somewhere Dean could pace, shaking hands covered in his brother's blood. Somewhere Mary could sit, trying her best to be strong for her boys despite the tearing, gnawing turmoil she'd felt. Somewhere peaceful, where Sam could heal.  
  
    Because they'd needed Sam to heal.  
  
    For so long, it had been a hole in the ground, dirt and stone and broken timber and stained glass, what was left of the sunlight filtering in through the cracks and the empty windows. Part of Mary had liked it better that way - she wasn't sure how she'd survive losing another home.  
  
    But a home it had become. Bits and pieces made their way in, most of them things Dean had built of wood or metal or wire, a hobby to occupy the long hours as they'd waited for Sam to recover. Shelves for the books he'd scrounged, a table and chairs where they could eat dinner together, sconces for the torches to light the place when the sun went out. Wooden walls of offices were patched up to give them some semblance of privacy, the roof mended to keep out the rain and the locusts.  
  
    When Sam had mentioned feeling useless sitting around in bed, a wheelchair had been salvaged, and another chair that Dean had set into a track in the wall of his room with a railing that he could use to pull himself along to the little study nook.  
  
    There was an icebox chiselled into the stone floor of an out-of-the-way tunnel for storing food, and a countertop with a little firepit where he could scratch up some kind of meal that wasn't jerky, and now Mary knew he was working on an oven.  
  
    Pictures hung on the walls now, paintings salvaged from the crumbling ruins of a home or business. Stained, singed rugs kept the cold out. Dean had even, in a fit of good humor, painted 'BEWARE OF GOD' on a piece of plywood to set outside the doorway with its heavy black curtain, like a welcome mat.  
  
    And then one morning - what passed for morning, it was hard to tell with a third of the day plunged into darkness, was it even really daytime anymore? - Mary had been wandering through the derelict pews, skirting around the jagged edges of their home when she'd spotted it.  
  
    A single lily, white as snow, had managed to grow its way up through the space where the altar had once been, awash in the dim light of post-Apocalyptic day. For a moment, it had almost felt as though she'd stumbled into a scene from a Disney film, and she'd laughed so hard she'd ended up sobbing, bringing Dean at a run, full of concern.  
  
    The moment he'd spotted the lily, he'd frozen, brow furrowed as though the very idea of something growing out of the ruined mess of their lives just couldn't compute. Mary had ruffled his hair and wandered on, her mind strangely at peace for the moment.  
  
    When she'd come back from a salvage trip the next day to find Dean on his knees in the ruins of the chancel, prying up boards with his bare hands to the foundation, at first she'd thought he'd finally lost it.  
  
    'Gotta have dirt if you want a garden,' was all he'd murmured, seemingly unaware of the fact that his fingers were bleeding.  
  
    Mary had quietly knelt beside him to help.  
  
    Sometimes she got the feeling that her children saw things she didn't.  
  
    Dragging herself back to the present, Mary knelt down to rub one of the almond's leaves between her fingers. "You'll make a perfect addition to the family," she hummed, already trying to dredge up her mother's almond cookie recipe from the depths of her memory. If Dean could get that oven working and they still had edible corn oil left, she'd have to give it a go.  
  
    Maybe she should have been focusing on more important things than cookies, she thought as she shifted the tree further into the fading sunlight, but when you had nothing, even the tiniest shred of normal made all the difference in the world.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a boring chapter - sorry! But there's exposition and some unspoken knob gags, so there's that. Next chapter will be more exciting - promise! I'm also sorry for the terrible 5 minute doodle, but tbh it's kinda hard to describe the dang place.
> 
> To those who have commented so far, many thanks! To those who will comment in the future...you know who you are. Do not resist. It is you Destiny.


	3. Viscaria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Castiel Contemplates Bees And Other Things, Linda Tran Shoots A Wendigo In The Face, And Sam Took Eggplant For Granted.

  
  
     **"God has an inordinate fondness for stars and beetles." - J.B.S. Haldane**  


* * *

  
  
    There had been a time, not long ago by angelic reckoning, when Castiel had loved bees.  
  
    The early Garden had been a tangled mess of life, with vivid colors and harsh, angry life cycles. The flowers had been hardy, what of them there had been, and they had been pollinated by beetles and such things, flourishing among the ferns and firs and horsetails that had been thirty meters high. He'd loved his Father's Garden, loved spending ages wandering, watching it shift and change, watching it evolve. There had been something perfectly imperfect about it, disordered as it was, as though it had taken on a life of its own outside God's Plan.  
  
    'There is nothing outside God's Plan,' Michael had reminded him sternly, long ago. 'Even the smallest seed must root and sprout according to our Father's Will.'  
  
    Castiel had nodded, because he was a Good Son, like Michael. How could he not be, with a Father who could create such incredible beauty?  
  
    Still, the fanciful notion had stuck with him, impossible imaginings. He'd believed there to be nothing more savage than the Garden, nothing more uncontrollable. He'd wondered if, eventually, the plants would evolve to walk, to speak. What would their voices be like? What would they say? Would they look at him and wonder, too? Would they imagine?  
  
    Would they turn their broad leaves towards the Light of God and know what it was toward which they reached?  
  
    Castiel had not shared these imaginings with his siblings. He had been young, but after the look Michael had given him, the first and only time he'd asked about the Garden, had made it clear to him that to imagine things was not normal.  
  
    'Creation is God's domain,' Joshua had said, even as he'd wandered the Garden with Castiel. 'We cannot meet His every brushstroke with questions where there ought to be only awe. Questions are the seeds of doubt.'  
  
    'But what if,' Castiel had whispered to a Tetraphalerus decorosus as it had crawled through the understory, 'what if questions are part of God's Plan? What if we are meant to doubt?'  
  
    Fear had taken hold of him then, for the very first time, and it had not been a pleasant sensation. The beetle had scurried on unnoticed, and Castiel had fought the urge to wonder where it was going.  
  
    No more wondering, he'd told himself, folding his wings about his body defensively. Only wonder. He'd continued to walk the Garden, cataloguing, learning, remembering, but he'd asked no more questions.  
  
    Scant centuries later, a voice had called out to him, the voice of his brother Lucifer.  
  
    'Castiel. Come. Come and look.'  
  
    Going to his side, Castiel had crouched down, following his most beautiful brother's gaze. He'd watched, detached, as a bee hovered down and gently kissed a flower.  
  
    'They are bees,' he had said. He was not curious about why his brother had pointed this bee out to him. He did not wonder anymore. He did not ask questions.  
  
    Lucifer, though, had answered as though Castiel had asked. 'Yes, brother,' he'd laughed. 'Well spotted. Now watch.'  
  
    They had followed the bee, Lucifer weaving after it in a mimicry of its flight path, Castiel trailing behind, unresistant and unsure and, for once, unseeing of the glory of the Garden around him. When it had reached its hive, they had peered in after it, Lucifer's smile sly, as though he'd been sharing a great secret.  
  
    'Watch,' he'd whispered again, and Castiel had watched.  
  
    After a moment, unbidden, it had risen in him, boiling as the seas had as they'd howled into being. Curiosity.  
  
    'What is it doing?' he'd asked before he'd remembered that to question was to doubt.  
  
    But Lucifer had not admonished him. He had not reminded Castiel that to doubt was to deny God. He had not frowned at him, disapproving, disappointed. In fact, he'd looked at Castiel with blazing eyes, delighted and satisfied, much as he'd looked at the bee.  
  
    'It is dancing,' he had replied quietly, a fierce look of love on his perfect face as he'd watched the bee move in wiggling loops.  
  
    Castiel had observed the bees from then on, following their paths, learning their dances, listening to their comforting hum, loving them as his brother loved them. He had watched as they evolved, and with them had come more flowers, beautiful flowers, wild streaks of color and heady scents. He had flown with Lucifer, weaving and laughing, and danced for him the bees' dances to great applause, and asked questions - and finally, there had been answers, even if the answer had quite often been 'I don't know'.  
  
    'Sometimes, little brother, no one knows.' A smile, shivering and pale like moonlight. 'God's Will is absolute, and seeing the path will not change it. I suppose the answers do not matter, then.'  
  
    'Perhaps, if the answers do not matter,' Castiel had ventured, his voice quaking, 'then what is important is it nature of the questions.'  
  
    Lucifer had held him then, proud of his little brother, and Castiel had felt...  
  
    He had felt.  
  
    The Garden had flourished, and for many millions of years, all had been peaceful.  
  
    And then, from the seething, glorious mess of it all, had come humans.  
  
    ('Don't step on that fish, Castiel,' his brother Gabriel had said millennia before, keen eyes laughing. 'Big plans for that fish.')  
  
    Adam, God had named the one. And Lilith, the other.  
  
    Oh, how wretched it all had become after that. Mischief that had turned ugly, the clash of brother against brother, and Castiel had watched Lucifer - beautiful, joyful Lucifer, who had not minded Castiel's questions, who had made Castiel _feel_ \- Fall from Heaven.  
  
    He did not watch the bees anymore.  
  
    That was, until he paused in the middle of smiting a particularly smug demon lieutenant that he'd been tracking for some time through the shattered mess of Earth to watch a fat, fuzzy bumblebee hum lazily past. It shocked him almost as much as it confused the demon.  
  
    The distracting thing about the bee was that it was lost, by which Castiel meant that its path was not in relation to its hive or a food source. It was simply meandering through what was, essentially, a warzone, with no destination in mind, no purpose, no point. Something about it stunned him into stillness, and oddly, the heart of his vessel began to pound in response to...  
  
    To what? What was it that he was feeling?  
  
    Pain blossomed in his shoulder, and he blinked down at where the demon's sword had pierced his vessel, the bumblebee forgotten as it continued on its pointless journey. Sighing, he removed the sword, tossing it aside, only to have his own blade wrenched from his grasp while his attention was elsewhere.  
  
    "Bees?" the demon asked, lips twitching. "Really?"  
  
    She lunged, and Castiel drew in a sharp breath, hand coming up in an attempt to smite the demon before it could kill him, but too slow, far too slow-  
  
    The demon jerked, arm falling uselessly to the ground, and in a second a pale hand was on her forehead, the demon burning in the light of an angel's Grace.  
  
    "Distraction is not like you, Castiel," his subordinate commented blandly.  
  
    Straightening, Castiel retrieved his sword. He did not favor Hester with a reply, because he wasn't sure how to reply. 'No, you're correct, it is not like me' was untrue, but so was 'Yes, actually, it is very in keeping with my nature'.  
  
    Uncertainty. Bitterness. He did not like the taste of them at all.  
  
    Peering into the distance - the direction the bee had taken, he realized with an uncomfortable start - he noted a stand of ruined trees in what had once been a park. Trees that had borne almonds, before. And there, in the midst of the charred trunks, a Silene viscaria plant stubbornly sprouted.  
  
    Castiel frowned. In keeping with his nature or not, these...these _feelings_ were not only dangerous in the battlefield, they were seeds of doubt. He had his orders, he reminded himself. He needed nothing beyond the strength and skill to carry them out.  
  
    "We will rejoin the garrison to the south," he said, pushing all other thoughts aside. He did not look to the viscaria again, did not contemplate almond trees, and did not wonder where the bee was going.  
  
    He had a job to do, and it had nothing to do with bees.  


* * *

  
  
    "Mom," Kevin explained again, gritting his teeth because despite his next words, it did actually hurt, "I'm fine."  
  
    "You aren't fine, Kevin," Linda snapped, her hand so tight around his wrist her knuckles were white. "You're injured. We're going to get you help, okay? There's a house over there, it looks like it's in pretty good shape. Just breathe."  
  
    "Mom. I'm really okay." Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, the twelve-year-old stumbled after his mother as she dragged him off the road and into the tall grass. "It's just a bee sting."  
  
    "You could be allergic," she theorized. "You've never been stung before, you don't know!"  
  
    "I'm pretty sure we would've noticed by now," he replied reasonably. He didn't stop her pulling him along, however, since it had been a while since they'd rested somewhere with an actual roof.  
  
    For his part, Kevin felt that he was pretty laid-back for a Revelationer - most of the other kids he'd met who had, like him, been born just prior to or during the Apocalypse tended to be a little...high-strung. Kevin didn't think it helped anything, and besides, his mom was high-strung enough for both of them. He supposed, though, that being a single mother carrying, birthing, and raising a baby in the middle of Armageddon was more than enough reason to be a little tense.  
  
    It was for that reason, more than even the prospect of not waking up with locusts in his hair again, that Kevin followed along behind her, still shaking out his bee-stung hand, giving little more than a token protest. He did actually roll his eyes after a minute or two of struggling through the grass, but he was twelve. It was expected.  
  
    He knew from experience that a lot of parents hadn't handled the end of days very well. He could understand it, but some of the stories were kind of grim. Children taken by hags, patents dying pointlessly trying to protect their kids from vampires, it was part of the general mayhem that the sudden proliferation of various breeds of the undead caused. In too many cases, parents trying to spare their children the hardship of surviving in a post-Apocalyptic (or was it peri-Apocalyptic?) world would make deals with demons, or give their children over to the angels. Or, just as horrific but probably more merciful in the end, simply killing them outright.  
  
    Kevin's mother had told him about the angels and demons that had come to her when she had been at her most desperate - nearing the end of her pregnancy, terrified for her child, and without anyone to protect either of them. Both parties had offered her safety, offered them both comfort and wealth and, in one particularly creepy case, places as the King of Hell's bride and heir. They'd been shifty about why, exactly, they wanted Kevin, but Linda Tran was nothing if not stubborn.  
  
    She'd told them all to fuck off, because Kevin's mom was the coolest mom ever. She had spent his entire life on the run, protecting him, raising him, and occasionally kicking some freaky thing or other in the face. Nothing tripped her up, nothing slowed her down, and nothing got in her way.  
  
    Which was why, when they finally reached the house to find a wendigo dragging off some slightly beardy, very bloody man, Kevin wasn't surprised when she simply turned him around, shoved her hand into his pack, and yanked out their salvaged flare gun.  
  
    "Hey!" she barked, following it up with a piercing whistle. "Ugly!"  
  
    The wendigo turned around, grotesque features twisted into a snarl, and Kevin couldn't help himself.  
  
    "Made ya look," he singsonged as his mother pulled the trigger.  
  
    "Kevin," she chastised as the thing shrieked, turning to ash in seconds, "what have I said about quipping?"  
  
    "Wait to be witty 'til after it's dead," he quoted dutifully, sighing internally. "Sorry, Mom."  
  
    The wendigo's victim groaned, cutting off her reply, and struggled to sit up.  
  
    "Balls," he said gruffly.  
  
    "Language," Linda snapped. "There's a child present."  
  
    The man snorted, inspecting himself critically like he might be able to heal his injuries by giving them a stern talking to. "Lady, in case you haven't noticed, the world's ending. I think pickin' up a few colorful words is the least of your kid's troubles."  
  
    "It's the principle of the thing," Linda sniffed, handing the flare gun back to Kevin to put away. "I hardly think a rain of toads is a good reason to be a shoddy role model."  
  
    The man stared at her for a second, then hauled himself to his feet unsteadily and retrieved a battered ballcap from the dirt a few feet away. Dusting it off, he wedged it onto his head with finality, kind of like Kevin imagined a knight might don a helmet before going into battle.  
  
    "Name's Bobby," the man said eventually. "Y'all lookin' for a place to rest?"  
  
    "Linda," Kevin's mom replied stiffly. "This is Kevin. And yes, we are."  
  
    "C'mon in, then," Bobby said. "Got some jerky stew goin', fresh water. Take a load off. I'll try to keep the language squeaky-Disney-clean for ya," he added as Linda trudged past him, going so far as to hold the screenless screen door open for her.  
  
    She didn't dignify that with a response, but Kevin knew her I'm-verbally-reducing-you-to-a-quivering-mess-of-nerves-in-my-head face. Privately, he kind of thought Bobby might know what that face meant, too, because he shifted awkwardly, shrugged at Kevin, and grinned. Shrugging back, Kevin followed his mother into the house.  
  
    They always met up with the weirdest people.  


* * *

  
  
    "Sam! Dinner, man!"  
  
    Looking up from his own cramped handwriting, Sam frowned in his brother's general direction. Dean liked to cook, oddly enough, and he especially liked figuring out how to make something that seemed luxurious out of whatever canned or dried goods they could scrounge up and whatever their mother could cultivate. He'd never sounded so excited before, though, and Sam realized he must have finished the first part of his 'hooch kitchen' - an oven that was heated by a small, whiskey-powered generator.  
  
    While he understood the necessity for developing a generator that didn't run on fossil fuel - because where on Earth would they find any more? - Sam had asked why Dean hadn't simply built a coal or wood-burning over. Dean had immediately nixed the idea, citing detectable smoke columns, lack of access to said fuels, and something about the environment that Sam was pretty sure he'd picked up from Sam himself that he didn't really mean. Then, much more convincingly, he'd admitted that a booze-powered oven was 'way cooler'.  
  
    Sam was positive that Dean just liked the phrase 'hooch kitchen'.  
  
    "Sam! C'mon! Scoot your ass out here or you don't get any-" He cut off suddenly, muttering, and Sam could just make out the sound of their mother replying. "-any eggplant casserole!"  
  
    Eggplant, Sam mused, shuffling his books back into some kind of order, making sure to mark his place in a couple. Had he ever eaten eggplant pre-Apocalypse? He couldn't remember, but then again, veggies hadn't been all that appealing to ten-year-old Sammy.  
  
    Funny, the things one took for granted, he thought as his stomach rumbled at the idea of a hot meal that wasn't beans or spam or, god forbid, more jerky stew.  
  
    "Sam! Now!" He could hear the worry in Dean's voice, and he realized belatedly that he hadn't bothered to respond yet. It was a wonder Dean hadn't come to look for him - his brother was nothing if not paranoid about Sam's safety.  
  
    "I'm coming!" he bellowed, rolling his eyes.  
  
    He looked down at the page he'd been filling with notes on crop rotation, brow wrinkling.  
  
    " _Ye Prophesies of Artazerkses I Longimanus_." He tilted his head, hair falling into his eyes. It was in big, thick letters, underlined many times, and after a second's consideration, he circled it. Putting away his pen and ink, he hefted himself out of his desk chair and into his wheelchair.  
  
    It seemed important, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember ever having heard of it, nor where he'd read about it, or why it mattered.  
  
    He didn't even remember writing it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In floriography, viscaria mean 'an invitation to dance'.
> 
> Ugh. Sorry this took so long. Life and such.
> 
> As you can probably see, I'm making a lot of shit up. However, it IS possible to build a combustion engine that run on alcohol. Not, generally, the sort you can drink - stronger is better, and by stronger I mean, like 190-proof. Which, you know. Blindness.
> 
> Aaanyway. Yeah. Linda's always been a badass and she should have been around more, and as you can see, twelve-year-old peri-Apocalypse-raised Kevin is kind of laid back about the whole Apocalypse thing. Also, Bobby is doomed.
> 
> Kindly leave comments or questions or curses in the comment section. Comments will be appreciated, questions answered, and curses kept in a box to be unleashed upon my enemies.


End file.
